


Sentient

by Princessfbi



Series: Despondent/Reactive [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Mentions of Blood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Peter Burke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:38:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi
Summary: It took them way too long to get the vault open.Peter's POV of "Benumbed".





	Sentient

It took them way too long to get the vault open. 

The roaring in Peter's ears hadn't stopped ever since Jones had raced up the steps to his office with a tight, "Something's happening at the bank." And the deafening white noise only intensified when the words "shots fired" had been thrown at them the moment they pulled up with their lights flashing and their guns drawn and their FBI bullet proof vests feeling a little tighter around their chests. 

Peter could've tasted the adrenaline coursing through them on his tongue. 

This wasn't something they did. This wasn't something the White Collar division usually had to worry about. 

Diana and Jones were right beside him, ready to go at his word, while the cogs of the vault clunked into place after the safecracker was finally able to open it. It took him five hours. Five.

Neal would've had it done in twenty minutes. 

"Shots fired."  

It rang loud and clear in Peter's head over and over again as he gave a nod, bracing himself for the inevitable. 

Once the door was open, the adrenaline flared to life under all of their veins in a cacophony of "FBI! Show us your hands! FBI! NYPD!"

But the smell quickly silenced them all. 

Blood. It was as sharp as the smell of hot concrete in a New York heat wave. 

Peter saw them out of the corner of his eye but waited for the all clear before he broke from his stance. He shoved his gun into his holster and raced over to the source of the smell, the roaring in his ears popping into the stale silence of the vault. Agent Ryan's face was half gone, the blood pooling around his lax body and soaking into the floor. Peter forced himself to look away before he lost control of himself. And he needed to be in control right now. He had to be. Because Neal was covered in blood and his breathing was short and hitched high up in his chest.

But he was alive. He was alive.

Neal's hands were white and zip tied behind his head to an old structural beam that had probably survived the war. Red blood was drying in a tacky splatter on his face. But he was alive and that Peter could grab onto. 

"Neal," Peter said, the panic slipping a little into his voice and making it crack. 

But Neal didn't respond. He didn't even seem to be aware of anything. Wide blue eyes stared straight ahead, pointed at a corner of a filing cabinet that seemed to have been untouched by the spray of blood. Neal's face hadn't been so lucky. 

Peter brought a hand up and cupped Neal's chin, lifting his head up so he could feel for a pulse on his neck. It was like jack rabbit had burrowed in Neal's carotid artery. 

"Neal?"

Neal flinched.

Jones appeared behind Neal out of nowhere and cut the zip ties in one carefully veiled angry pull of his pocket knife. But he caught Neal's hands before they could fall and eased them past his head into Peter's hand, swearing at the sight of the skin.  

"Neal," Peter pressed again, holding Neal's face until he looked at him. "Neal, are you hurt anywhere else?"

Nothing. Neal just stared at him, those hitching inhales turning sharper and shorter with each second. Neal pulled away from Peter with a small jerk of his neck that seemed to ripple down to the rest of his body in small tremors. 

"Shooter is still missing, Boss," Diana whispered, making a point to say it in Peter's ear away from Neal. 

Peter looked up at her, at the thinly pressed lips, and edgy squint in her eyes. Jones wore a similar expression and looking at Jones meant Peter had to look at Ryan's body again and he swore. 

None of this should've happened. 

"Take Neal out of here," Peter said. 

Diana nodded and circled around Neal in three easy steps before dropping into a crouch beside him. 

"Neal," Diana tried, holding out her hand. "Neal, let's get you out of here."

But Neal just stared at her outstretched palm, hitching some air into his lips and then holding his breath. Peter dropped a hand onto Neal's neck and rubbed his shoulders until he exhaled. The last thing Neal would want would be for everyone to see him pass out. Diana seemed to gather the same thing because she slipped her hand under Neal's limp fingers. 

"Come on, Neal," she said, wrapping an arm around Neal's shoulders. "Come on."

Something must have gotten through because Neal's fingers curled around hers. She hid the grimace well at the sight of Neal's bloody bruised wrists, rubbed raw from his struggling, not that Neal would've noticed. Peter helped her get Neal onto his feet.

"Have the paramedics take a look at his wrists," Peter said, dropping his eyes to Ryan's body. "I'll... I'll be right here."

Neal's gaze dropped down to his hand in hers and his knees buckled a little. But Diana wrapped her arm down and around Neal's back and propped him forward until his legs moved of their own muscle memory. 

There were a lot of things Peter regretted about that night. But the biggest one had to be the fact that Neal had to watch the coroner's wheel out Agent Ryan's body in a black body bag. 

From an outsider's perspective it would've been almost breathtaking. Every cop, every agent, stopped what they were doing and watched in silence as the body bag was wheeled into the back of the truck. It was a sign of respect that oozed with even more determination to find the son of a bitch who had done such a horrendous cold act.

But Peter didn't think to get to Neal before the body passed and instead he found Neal, still as ever, sitting at the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket over his shoulders and staring as the coroners worked together to ease Ryan into the back of the van on the way to the morgue. 

"Neal?" Peter asked after the van had left and for once Neal reacted to his voice. 

Pale tired blue eyes peered up at Peter and wavered a little at the shift. Peter dropped a hand down onto his shoulder, fingers splaying onto the skin of his neck that was still cold with clammy tremors. 

"I want to go home now," Neal said, his voice quiet and rough. "Please."

Something cracked in that please and Neal took another shuddering inhale and held. 

Peter glanced up at the paramedic who silently nodded and continued cleaning up the back of the truck. Peter sighed and shifted his hand to the back of Neal's head, fingers curling into matted black hair, and stroking the crown of his scalp. Neal released his breath with a sharp exhale.

"Okay," Peter said with a nod Neal didn't see. "Let's get you home."

Neal, thankfully, had the patience to put up with the photographs needed to be taken on his face and clothes and wrists but he sagged into the passenger seat the moment they were alone and hugged the borrowed FBI jacket close to his chest, hiding his hands and chest beneath the nylon. He didn't say anything the whole car ride and Peter didn't say anything either. What was there to say? Sure, Neal would have to give his statement because despite everything they still didn't know what actually happened. Last he checked Jones was still working on waking up everyone who needed to be to get them the footage of the security tape. 

But Peter had never seen Neal like this. When Kate died, Neal's grief had been so raw, like a wound that pulsed and pulsed into an angry bruise and eventually went away with processing time. But not like this. This Neal was almost... catatonic.

It was terrifying.

So, Peter didn't say anything because there was nothing to say. 

Neal frowned when they finally pulled up to June's house and were greeted by two patrol cars. 

"The shooter is still at large. Right now, you're a witness. You're under 24-hour protection for now." Peter informed him, hurrying out of his side of the car and over to Neal's.

Something flashed over Neal's expression before Peter could catch it but Neal stepped past him and threw a quick wave at the patrol cars before walking stiffly up the steps to the front door. Peter tried not to wince at the inflexible bend of Neal's shuffling. Neal was always a kind of stride like the wind was carrying you kind of guy. But Neal was walking like his muscles were all locked after too much running and not enough water. It hurt just to watch.

Peter followed Neal up the stairs to his loft and bounced ahead of him on the last few steps before pulling out his gun and holding a hand out to Neal. 

"I've got to go first," Peter said as almost an apology. 

He didn't wait too long to feel even worse and opened Neal's door with a practiced ease. Neal stayed back without complaint and let Peter clear his apartment before stepping in. 

"Can I shower?" Neal asked, his voice still quiet and small. 

Peter was confused for a minute but then turned to look at him. Even in the light of the apartment, Ryan's blood was a spotlight on Neal. It caked his face and hair and stained Neal's clothes in a way that was never going to be clean. 

"Yeah," Peter said with a nod. "But your clothes are going to have to go into evidence."

Neal's lips flattened into a determined line and he took a garbage bag from under his sink and disappeared into the bathroom. 

Peter sagged into his stance, running his hands over his face, and allowing himself a minute to just... stop. He was so bone tired. He couldn't remember when he'd been so tired. When the sounds of the shower started, Peter pulled himself together and got on the phone. First, he needed to call El. Then Hughes. Then Jones and Diana. There were steps to take. He could do that.

He thought about possibly giving Mozzie a heads up but he couldn't promise to keep the bald man away. He was loyal to Neal without a fault but something told Peter Neal couldn't handle his company right now. But he also couldn't promise that Mozzie wouldn't tempt the NYPD officers downstairs from running him over with their squad cars. Maybe in the morning. 

When Neal finally reappeared from the bathroom, his clothes were in the garbage bag and held in front of him like it was a snake. His hair was limp against his forehead and even though he was covered with pajama bottoms and a grey zip up hoodie, Peter could still see the angry pink on Neal's skin where he had rubbed off the blood with too hot water. 

"Neal..." Peter started because he promised El he would say something.

But Neal dropped the garbage bag on the table and shrugged further into his sweatshirt. 

"Can I go to sleep or... do you..." Neal asked, his voice sounding a little steadier, a little more present than it had before he showered. 

"We can do the statement tomorrow," Peter finished for him. 

Neal shifted deeper into the safety of his sweater and the sharp flash of deep blue and purple bruises caught Peter’s eye.

“We should ice those first,” he said and instantly regretted bring attention to them because Neal went very still. 

Peter knew if he didn’t move they would stay stuck in the thick molasses of lingering tension and there was nothing Peter wanted more than to let Neal go to sleep and start to build himself back together again. So, he stepped over to the freezer and pulled out the ice packs they had picked up from a Rite Aid a few months earlier after a suspect had gotten a lucky shot at Neal. Neal’s shiner had been impressive and a badge of honor.

This… was different. 

Neal mumbled his thanks as he took the ice packs and dish towel.

“Are you on guard duty?” Neal asked, shuffling his way to his bed.

Peter nodded even though Neal’s back was to him. But Neal didn't say anything either and instead just crawled into his bed, dragged up his blankets, and propped his hands onto a pillow beside him with the ice on top.

It was so much easier to trick themselves into thinking everything was normal again after they finally caught the shooter. After a rough afternoon where Neal had to identify the suspect from a line up, everything seemed just a little bit easier day by day. And maybe Peter wanted it to be easier. Because Neal was a criminal but what happened in the vault wasn’t something Peter ever wanted Neal to have to deal with. Sure, he worked in white collar crimes but he was still an agent and he’d still dealt with some of the worst kinds of people from time to time. But Neal… Neal wasn’t built for that kind of brutality. Life kept trying to shove the truly terrible down his throat but it was always from a distance. Kate died in that explosion and Neal was nothing more than a grieving spectator. But for Agent Ryan’s murder… it was different. Neal was a participant. And Peter never ever wanted Neal to have to go through something like that. He knew the risks of putting Neal out in the field and he made sure he did everything in his power to protect him. And it could turn. It could get really, really ugly at any moment.

But this? Agent Ryan’s murder? It shouldn’t have happened.

So, maybe he wanted to believe that Neal was getting better. Maybe he had made a point to ignore the shaking and the smiles that never quite reached his eyes and the barely hidden misery that had set in Neal’s shoulders. 

But then Neal had exploded in the middle of the bullpen.

They’d had their disagreements before but never like what that episode was.

It was different. It was unsettling. It was the explosion from a long fuse that had been lit the night Neal had been trapped with a dead body for five hours.

“I am not a thing!” Neal had shouted in front of everyone.

Everyone. 

And that’s when Peter knew how wrong he’d been. Neal was a ham, he loved attention but Neal was never quite comfortable being the _center_ of attention. It was too much of a risk to his lifestyle.

But it was almost like he didn’t even realize… He had exposed himself in a way that Neal would have never allowed if he was even remotely aware of what he was doing and where he was. 

“No, Neal,” Peter had said, his hands falling onto his hips as he started to finally realize what was really going on. “No, you’re not.”

Peter waited until Jones had offered to take Neal home before he made the call.

Sawyer’s office had a sweet hazelnut scent drifting around and that same gentle smile she always seemed to have was present.

“He’s… He’s a pain in the ass, Sawyer,” Peter said, leaning forward in her overstuffed chair and taking a gulp of his coffee. “He’s going to dance around every question you ask him but he needs your help. And I know he’s not an agent but---”

“Of course,” Sawyer nodded. “I can schedule him in next week.”

“Thank you.” Peter sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

He hadn’t even realized how wound up he had been until Sawyer lifted that burden off his shoulders with a simply flick of her calendar.

Sawyer studied Peter after she scribbled Neal’s appointment into her planner and it took longer than Peter would like to admit to notice. He was just so tired and he wanted nothing more than to sleep all weekend.

“Would you like to schedule one as well?” She asked with a small tilt of her head.

“I’m doing fine. It just been a mess. This whole thing.” Peter pointedly avoided her gaze as he took another long sip of his coffee.

He’d always wondered if people came to Sawyer for her help or for the coffee. If he was being honest, probably a little bit of both.

“That didn’t answer my question, Peter.”

Damn. He’d forgotten how perceptive she was. If Sawyer ever wanted to become a field agent, she’d be the best profiler the bureau would ever have.

But she was patient and Peter couldn’t help but break a little at the understanding in her gaze. Everyone tried to help, tried to listen, and take some of the load off Peter’s shoulders. But no one understood Neal like he did. It was easy. It was easy to accept face for what it was. Peter was never one to take the easy road.

“I need to know Neal’s going to be okay,” Peter said, rubbing his hands together to buy some time to finally string together his thoughts. “He’s my responsibility. He’s my priority right now. Once I know he’s going to be okay, then I’ll think about coming down for a session.”

Sawyer looked at Peter for a second and then nodded. “Okay.”

And Peter breathed and finished his coffee and went home to his wife and dog. 

Okay.

Neal could be helped.

Okay.


End file.
